Rich Brook
by TakesTwoToTango
Summary: <html><head></head>On their way out of North Dakota, Crowley runs across an old foe with withering wings. He has to end this encounter before Dean comes back from whatever field trip he's on. And while it's unlikely that Dean Winchester would slit Castiel's throat, a demon can hope. Then again, can Crowley afford the risk of the carrier of the Mark of Cain going rogue? Destiel hinting.</html>


Crowley didn't feel terribly charitable when Castiel literally stumbled across his path. Even the angel's bruised, bleeding appearance, no doubt unhealable with his wavering grace, didn't spawn even the tiniest glimmer of pity. Although his pathetic attempts to restrain Crowley were certainly laughable. The king of hell didn't even have to call on his attack dog to send the angel tumbling to the ground, landing in a heap of gasping breath and clacking bones.

"My, you are in sorry shape, aren't you, Castiel?" Crowley taunted as he studied the former mighty heavenly warrior, careful to keep his trousers clear of any sprayed blood. Defiant eyes once the color of cobalt met his, now dulled to the flat tone of steel by sorrow.

"Every high school girl knows that when her boyfriend dumps her, it doesn't mean she's _actually_ going to die," Crowley jabbed, internally sniggering at the irritation that flickered across Castiel's face. The heartbreak that rode on its tails was simply icing on the cake.

"What have you done with him, Crowley?" the angel rasped, his low voice roughened even further by constantly swallowing back his own blood. Murder on the vocal cords, that.

"Who, Dean?" Crowley hedged, toying with Castiel, an opportunity he never failed to grasp with two sweaty little hands. "Not sure what you mean. He's not chattel; I assume he's off entertaining himself somewhere. Although I'd hate for him to miss the show. You're quite the little train wreck." Not that Crowley had any intention of calling Dean to this lonely stretch of road at the moment. No doubt he'd sniff them out soon enough, whenever he was done doing what he felt needed to be done with Moose. And while Crowley could guess with a solid 94% accuracy what Dean would do next (a number that went even higher when it came to his gargantuan brother), things got a little dicey when his pet angel was thrown into the mix. So far, Castiel had stayed largely off of Dean's radar, no doubt due to his failing condition. But if Dean actually came face to face with his favorite heavenly soldier, there was no telling what insanity would break loose.

"Hey, Crowley. What'd I miss?" At that rugged, insouciant tone, Crowley let his eyes drift closed, carefully staying in Dean's line of sight to the ill angel as he pivoted to face the elder Winchester, his mind racing as to how to play this to his advantage. He still had the Mark; Dean's leash was still firmly secure. But he had yet to test his tether. The king of hell tried to brace himself for the pull.

"Nothing terribly exciting, Dean. Just a has-been shooting for one last hit." He angled away then, revealing Castiel in all his bloody, pale glory to the man who had once been his champion, his reason. Crowley would dare say, if he was feeling at all romantic, that Dean was now the angel's last crusade.

He'd been expecting one severe reaction and one largely without emotion, but not from the parties that displayed them. Castiel, after all, looked like he'd been dragged behind the Impala for twenty miles, whereas the only difference to Dean was the black eyes he loved to flash to get a reaction and the part in his ever so slightly longer hair. But Dean gazed at his old comrade like he was looking at a turnip. Meanwhile, whatever color was left in Castiel's face drained away, his eyes, one going red from a popped blood vessel, shot wide, his mouth falling open as his breathing came out in a wheeze. It took only a moment for Crowley to comprehend.

He'd just seemed so human, so broken and fragile and mortal, that the king of hell had forgotten for a moment that Castiel didn't see Dean's handsome, if usual, face. He saw his soul – the twisting, screaming, pitch black mire that had been let out its cage and left to consume any fragments of humanity that had once tried to control it. Crowley waited for the usual response. That it wasn't Dean, that Dean was dead and this was some other demon controlling what was left of him. That the vessel of Michael, savor of mankind, and killer of Abaddon couldn't be worse than the monsters he'd always hunted.

But no such refusals tumbled from Castiel's mouth. Of course, this _was _Dean. Metatron had indeed killed him, but like anyone who'd had their heart restarted, Dean's soul returned to its mortal shell upon his resurrection. But with that last bastion of humanity out of the way for a single hour, the power of the Mark had gone into full effect, turning him into something beyond humanity and demonic possession, something it would have usually taken him years to achieve, to grudgingly give in to. It was all Dean; almost as if the darkest parts of him were engorged on meth, swallowing any lingering sparks of good whole. And Castiel knew that. The look in his eyes was shattered enough that even Crowley thought for almost a moment that the black hole where his heart used to be twinged a little. Dean, however, gave no reaction whatsoever. In fact, he looked bored.

"Oh, Dean," the angel murmured, nearly whimpering. "So this is what I sacrificed heaven for," Castiel sighed, or tried to. The blood Crowley could hear bubbling in his lungs caught in his throat, sending him into a hacking fit that had it dripping from the corner of his mouth. Dean just shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"What can I say, Cas? You bet on the wrong horse. Got to admit, it's damn nice to be footloose and fancy-free now. None of that baggage weighing me down," he said in his adamantly cheerful tone.

"That _baggage_," Castiel growled hoarsely as he tried to swipe away the blood leaking from his nose, "was the best part of you. This darkness was always in you, before you ever went to hell. But your ability to fight it back, to feel, to fail – that's why you can bear the Mark at all. Only a soul of immense strength and depth could take on the Mark of Cain. But without that same strength, you'll never be rid of it, either."

"Who says I want to get rid of the Mark? What, pass it on to some other lucky sucker?" Dean said with a shrug as Crowley's skin went cold. He should have kicked in Castiel's tissue paper skull when he had the chance. Not that the issue wouldn't resolve itself soon enough, but he didn't care to have that bug planted in Dean's ear.

"It doesn't matter," Castiel muttered, sounding immensely exhausted and beaten down by despair. Just the way Crowley liked him. "You're too far gone to be saved. Sam will never admit it, but from what I've seen, the Dean Winchester that I knew, the one that mattered, died six weeks ago. I'm sorry." He barely managed to get the last sentence out in a feeble whisper before the coughing started again, this time hard enough to wrack his whole frame. When it didn't abate after a solid sixty seconds, Dean shifted. Crowley smelled trouble.

"What, no new juice? I thought you'd have changed out your battery by now." Breathing like he was sucking air in through a straw, the angel shook his head.

"I won't have another angel's blood on my hands simply to extend my own existence. And the way things stand now… there's not much point." The look creeping into Dean's eyes as the angel lying on the ground in front of him started coughing again, quite obviously dying, had Crowley's stomach tightening. He had to salvage this. Gently, though. Dean had proven unpredictable with manhandling.

"Another angel's grace shouldn't be burning out this fast," Dean snarled as he took his hands out of his pockets, while Castiel slumped to the ground, the only sign of life the weak coughing that shook his shoulders. Crowley just shrugged.

"A few reasons why Wonder Boy's about to bite the big one. One, that vessel has been his alone since Lucifer popped him like a balloon, so there's no human life force to help sustain the body. Two, you and Moose probably don't realize this because he's always been your first draft pick, but Castiel was one of the most powerful angels among the heavenly host. No mere foot soldier is going to have the brawn needed to keep him going, even in power saver mode. He's been fading hard ever since he gave up his command. Seems like capturing Metatron will be his last big hurrah." Crowley focused on his tone and word choice. It had already happened, it was a done deal. Castiel's death was inevitable. Time to move on, Dean. We can get you another pet.

When Dean moved, he moved so fast, Crowley barely caught him out of the corner of his eye. One second, he was standing yards away. The next, he was looming over Castiel, his fingers vised in that tan trench coat, yanking his limp frame up from the ground.

"Come on, you weak little son of a bitch. Pull yourself together," Dean demanded in that harsh tone that cowed captains of angel squads and the origins of monster bloodlines. The angel just hacked and jerked in his hold, the last tiny flickers of a guttering flame. Crowley shifted his weight to walk forward, to nudge Dean away from his expiring toy. Quite suddenly though, Dean was kneeling down next to Castiel, gathering the shuddering angel up in his arms. Crowley was so aghast, he could do nothing but stand there, horrified.

One arm wrapped around Castiel's shoulder, Dean threaded his fingers through the hair at Castiel's temple, slightly more silvered than it had been the last time they'd caught sight of the angel, gazing intently at his face. What Crowley couldn't see was the way Castiel's hand weakly drifted up, catching the edge of Dean's green flannel shirt in a desperate, fragile grip as his lashes trembled open. Whatever was exchanged in that glance had the atmospheric pressure around them heightening. Finally, though, Castiel slipped into unconsciousness.

After muttering "Godammit, Cas," a few times under his breath with what sounded like genuine fury, Dean finally seemed to reach a decision. Settling his weight back on his haunches, still cradling the dying angel in his arms, Dean began rifling through Castiel's coat. Crowley, for the first time in centuries, was speechless. Withdrawing Castiel's angel blade, Dean rested it on the ground before slicing the vulnerable inside of his wrist on it. Knowing from experience how much the bloody things burned, Crowley was surprised at Dean's complete lack of expression except for angry determination.

He thought to say something when Dean raised the wound to Cas's already bloodied mouth. But he had no idea what Dean's actions would do; he doubted Dean did, either. Why he bothered at all was what concerned him. And then there was the fact that keeping Dean sharp with those Abaddon groupies meant the Winchester was always raring for a fight, and Crowley wanted to keep all his appendages, thank you very much. He'd learned the hard way to never get between Dean and Cas, so he stayed put, keeping careful watch.

None of them moved until Cas's throat, exposed by the way he was propped against Dean's arm, bobbed, signifying that the blood was making it into his system. Without waiting to see what his handiwork would wreak, Dean lowered the angel to the ground, with more care than Crowley liked, snagging the angel blade. Dean stood and pivoted on his heel before the angel began to regain any sort of consciousness.

"Get yourself some goddamn juice, Cas. You won't get any more free passes from me. The next time you cross me, I'll maim you." All this was said in a brutal tone without turning to look at Castiel, Dean's gaze stonily focused forward once he'd handed the blade to the king, who knew full well that the Impala's trunk currently housed half a dozen of them – Dean apparently like to collect the silver blades. Crowley glanced over his shoulder as he fell in step with Dean, and could see the angel's eyes fluttering open. Still striding at the tall, ex-hunter's side, Crowley risked a peek at Dean's soul. Still as ugly and ideal as usual. Just before they blinked, though, the king of hell thought that maybe he saw a glimmer of something, almost iridescent, in the swirling mass of rage and hate and grief. Something that would make his newest weapon bloody difficult to handle.

* * *

><p><em>I couldn't resist.<em>

_I already have a feeling that Dean's going to be disappointing me a lot this season. So I tried to make myself feel a little better by writing this little one-shot about how I envision Dean and Cas's first reunion since his death. I hint at mythologies here that I can only speculate at. And this is largely my attempt to expand on that lamely simple answer given pre-season about Dean and Cas's bond. Because there is never enough time given to Dean and Cas to satisfy me. The setting and situation take a few cues from pictures of episode 2. So here's to season 10, and the incredibly likely chance of immense heartache._

_Hope you like it!_

_Love, Tango_


End file.
